Due Justice (14 page)

“Right. But the truth is, Uncle Bish is more than a little proud of Oz's sprout. Junior has never before exhibited any traits of real manliness, you see. He's always been sort of a bookworm weeny. Now, at least we know he's capable of manliness. But that doesn't mean Oz wants Junior destroying his dynasty. Junior has four children, after all, and a very respectable wife.” Mitch was chewing his burger with gusto. He was really getting into this now.

“How sweet.” I said. “A little meaningless dalliance. Well, that's a time-honored privilege of the privileged, but throw away the future the family has planned for Junior on a pair of long legs, even very attractive and smart long legs? No.”

“Is this my story or yours?”

“Sorry. It's just so predictable.”

“No problem, but watch it.” He gave me a mock slap on the wrist. “So, the State's Attorney agrees to the plan because what choice does he have? Besides, he's been totally oblivious to the gossip and didn't even realize what was going on in his own office.”

“It's really true that the farther up the ladder you get, the less people talk to you.” I waved for some extra napkins again and the waitress brought them over. Mitch took a couple this time, too.

“Right. Besides that, you know the State's Attorney is one of those true blue types. He's been married since he was twenty-five and he's never even looked at another woman.”

“He's never really looked at his wife, either.” I couldn't resist. I figured if I was going to be a gossip, I might as well go all the way.

“True, but sex has not been his aphrodisiac. He can't understand how otherwise intelligent men let their dicks do the thinking.”

“Amen.” I signaled for another round, trying to decide if I should switch to something lighter. I did have to drive home, and I wasn't interested in explaining a drunk driving ticket to the CJ. I could just see it. “Oh, Oz. Junior's story was just sooooo interesting. I couldn't help myself.” I'd stick with the beer for now. What the hell.

“So, the State's Attorney himself calls Junior into his office and gives him the ultimatum,” Mitch continued.

“Let me guess. ‘This is unseemly. It's embarrassing. It's affecting your future'” I said, covering my sarcasm well, I think.

“In the tradition of the way these things have been handled from time immemorial, he tells Junior to put a stop to ‘this relationship' at once, or the young assistant will be fired.”

“That's outrageous!” I nearly spit out my beer. “Why didn't they fire him? What he's doing was immoral and illegal. The State Attorney could find himself on the wrong end of a sexual harassment suit over this.”

“Don't I know it. Labor law is my
forte
, remember? But does anyone ask me? No.” Mitch sounds more than a little put out by this. Everyone's got his own ox to gore, every time. Count on it.

“Junior must have been incensed. He is next in line to the throne, after all. Not only the family throne, but Uncle Bishop's throne as well.”

“Make that ‘was.' The way I heard the story, that was exactly his thinking. So Junior calls Dad and lays it on thick about the lame-brained behavior by the dotty old State's Attorney. But, shock of shocks, Dad agrees with Uncle Bish.”

“Junior must have been having a cow! I wish I could have seen it!”

“And you'd have had to stand in line. Anyway, Junior told his cronies later that Dad said ‘a piece of ass is nice, Junior, but it's not worth your credibility, your family, and your job.' He wouldn't support him on this one.”

“What did Junior do?”

“Junior thinks about it for two hours. He decides to put an end to the affair. He calls her into his office and tries to explain it to her. She cries. She pleads. She sits on his lap.”

“So, Junior's little head snaps to attention and he throws caution to the wind.” The sarcasm was so thick you'd have to cut it with a chain saw.

“Right. He called the guy I heard this from, really hot. They're not going to railroad him. He'll show them who's boss. And so forth. His pal tries to get him to calm down. No dice. He calls a guy who's been courting him to come over and join our firm for months. He agrees to come if he can bring her with him.” The finish was kind of a letdown, although the story had been a good one.

“You have got to be putting me on. It's interesting to finally learn how he got to the firm, but why would all this ancient history cause him to resign now?” This was real news. If I ever leave the bench, it actually gives me a place to go back to.

“Because everybody found out about it this week. Uncle Bish had managed to keep the whole thing quiet, but lately there's been some rumblings in our associate ranks that Junior's up to his old tricks. Someone reported him to our managing partner, who called Junior in for a little talk. Junior told him to take this job and shove it.”

I don't know if it was the story or the beer, but the whole situation seemed so funny. We were laughing so hard that other patrons in the clubhouse were staring at us.

“I would have paid, paid you understand, to see the look on your managing partner's face when Junior quit. This is precious.”

When he could talk again, Mitch said, “Yeah, but the managing partner is really sweating. Now he's really pissed off Oz, Senior, and Uncle Bish, and he knows it. He doesn't know what to do. What will he say? Everyone was planning on Junior to be managing partner when his time came.”

“Well, I can't believe many of your comrades are too upset about it. I'm thrilled, although if you repeat that I'll deny it.” We signed the check and went out to our cars. Certainly one of the more entertaining golf dates we've had lately, even if it did cost me fifty dollars. I had a nice little buzz going. We said our goodbyes and were about to leave the course for the day, when one more question occurred to me.

“Mitch, just out of curiosity, where did Junior's floozy go, anyway? Did she come with him to your firm?”

“No. She left Junior at the same time she left the State Attorney's office and took an in house counsel job for some medical device company in St. Pete.” Buzz kill. Fifty bucks wasted, but that solved one mystery, at least. How had Carly thought she'd ever keep such a secret? And no wonder she thought she had no credibility with our local authorities.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Tampa, Florida

Tuesday 9:00 a.m.

January 12, 1999

BY TUESDAY, MY PATIENCE was exhausted and my annoyance level off the charts. I'd spent the weekend alternately in front of the television or the newspapers and trying to reach Carly. The news was all about the upcoming Gasparilla festivities, Tampa's version of Mardi Gras. Carly was nowhere to be found.

Jones v. General Medics
started promptly at 9:00 Tuesday morning, as the judge promised, and I was in no mood for nonsense. The case was scheduled for three weeks on my docket, but the way jury selection was going, I was sure it would take three months. Just great. Three whole months of Christian Grover. I couldn't wait.
Voir dire
dragged on through 12:30, and we broke for lunch.

When I came back to my chambers for the lunch recess, there was a message from Carly. The message said “don't worry I'll be back soon.” No number. I asked Margaret, my secretary, whether she had talked with Carly and how she sounded. Margaret said someone else had taken the message and I asked her to find out who. She looked at me quizzically, but knew better than to argue. She said she'd let me know.

As Margaret was leaving my office, she said “by the way, the CJ called. He wants to see you this afternoon when you recess for the day.” Interesting. He's staying late to talk to me. This can't be good, I thought. More than that, it promised to be a pain in the ass. Maybe I'd recess early and get out before he came by.

I also had a message from Mark, Carly's brother. Thinking he might have heard from Carly, I called him back. He was out and I left another message. In private practice, I used to bill for telephone tag. Now, it just takes up my time and makes me irritable.

Just before we reconvened after lunch, my secretary came to tell me that she'd asked around and no one remembered taking the message from Carly. She seemed puzzled and promised to keep trying.

Before bringing the venire back into the courtroom, I strongly admonished both lawyers, on the record. “Gentlemen, I've had enough fooling around in this case already. So there hasn't been a breast implant case in the country that's been tried in under four weeks. This one will be the first. When we get started, I will finish voir dire myself. When we have the jury, Mr. Grover, you may give your opening statement. You have twenty minutes. And” . . . I looked at Grover steadily, “there will be none of your infamous shenanigans or I'll mistry this case so fast you won't know what hit you.”

I turned to O'Connell. “Mr. Worthington,” I said, just as sternly, “you'll have twenty minutes for your opening and we
will
get our first witness on today.”

I addressed my bailiff before either man could say a word and instructed him to bring in the jurors. Once the panel was seated, I apologized for keeping them waiting and told them that we would finish the case in three weeks. I asked the few relevant
voir dire
questions I thought had been missed, gave the lawyers their preemptories and finished the selection in ten minutes flat. I instructed the jury, asked them to give the matter their undivided attention and we got down to work. Appealable error be damned.

Grover has a reputation for outrageous behavior in the courtroom, and he doesn't care whether his verdicts get overturned on appeal. I was surprised when he delivered a colorful, but proper, opening in nineteen minutes. As O'Connell concluded his opening remarks, I could see Grover's mind and attention were elsewhere. I couldn't fault him for that; my mind wasn't on the trial either.

I asked Grover to call his first witness. The trial proceeded quickly through the afternoon hours and we recessed at 4:30. I admonished everyone to be back in the courtroom promptly at 8:30 the next morning and left the bench. I couldn't remember a thing that had been said by either side, and I hoped the jury was paying closer attention.

Because I needed the distraction, I had called Pricilla Worthington during the three o'clock break and asked her if I could come by for a cup of tea and bring over the bill for food service for the AIDS benefit. Cilla is the only woman I know who still has a full tea service in the afternoon. She hesitated just a little too long over the request and I thought for a minute she might actually refuse. But then, gracious as always, she said of course I could come.

I arrived at their Bayshore mansion about five minutes early, and I parked under the
porte-cochere
. It was a gloriously sunny day, about seventy degrees, and no wind. The sailors would be unhappy, but for the rest of us, it was the kind of day Floridians live for.

I walked up and rang the bell and Mrs. Smith, the Worthington's ancient black housekeeper, finally got to the door about ten minutes later. She hugged me, and escorted me into the parlor, where Cilla was waiting, her silver tea service set out on the coffee table.

“Willa, dear, do come in. The tea's just ready. You're right on time.” I sat down on the antique camel-back sofa across from Cilla, and admired the room, as I have countless times. I don't think there had been a new piece of furniture placed in that room in more than fifty years. Cilla told me once the house had belonged to her parents, and she and O'Connell had moved into it just as it stood when her father finally died in ‘64. It was old, but it was clean, and all the pieces were in excellent repair. The rugs alone were worth a fortune. I wondered just how big the Worthington estate would be when their children inherited. And now I was also wondering why her brother, the CJ, didn't live in the house.

Cilla and I spent some time discussing the fund-raiser, how successful it was, and how much the Junior League had Senator Warwick to thank for that. I gave her the bill, ostensibly my reason for coming. She took it as if it was a piece of junk mail, and set it on the side table. I was sure George would eventually get paid, but it's a mark of extreme wealth that Cilla believed it wouldn't matter exactly when the League settled up.

Finally, I was able to bring the conversation around to the real reason for my visit. “Cilla,” I said, as if it was, oh, just a little curiosity, “do you remember the other day when we were at Minaret with Kate and Tory Warwick?”

“Of course I remember, Willa. I'm old, but I'm not senile.” Just a little edgy. Uncharacteristic of her. Maybe O'Connell or the grandchildren were misbehaving lately and it was on her mind.

“I wasn't suggesting anything of the kind. It's just that I forget things sometimes, and I thought maybe you did, too.” I tried to placate her. I resolved not to get old. Old people are so inflexible.

“No, I remember the day perfectly well. What did you want to ask me about it?” To the point, as always.

“Well,” I set down my tea cup and leaned forward, suggesting I'd keep the conversation confidential without saying so. “Tory said something about having an affair with Michael Morgan years ago and you seemed to know about it. I thought maybe you'd tell me what happened.”